


Other Senses

by MistressKat



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blindness, Deaf Clint Barton, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Rescue, Sign Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 22:53:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13258299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: That Clint was beaten black and purple enough to match his outfit, she'd expected. That he hadn't yet acknowledged her in any way, however, was a bad sign. A very bad sign.





	Other Senses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mekare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mekare/gifts).



> Written as a fandom_stocking gift for mekare. I hope this hits your fic like for hurt/comfort

"Well, this is uncharacteristically nice of you, Clint," Natasha said, wiping sweat off her brow with a back of one hand while the other was keeping the weapon trained on the guys scattered across the floor. She was almost certain that they were all dead but she wasn't going to risk her partner's life on an 'almost'. "Leaving all the bad guys for me. This is going to push my annual tally to a clear lead."  
  
She was keeping her voice purposefully light, trying to bring a little normalcy to a situation that was nothing but. The group – some splinter faction of Red Skull that had managed to fly under the S.H.I.E.L.D.'s radar successfully enough that someone somewhere was going to get fired – had taken Clint five days ago. And what Natasha could see of him, the experience hadn't exactly been a pleasurable one.  
  
That Clint was beaten black and purple enough to match his outfit, she'd expected. That he hadn't yet acknowledged her in any way, however, was a bad sign. A _very_ bad sign.  
  
Quickly, she bent down to check that the people responsible for whatever had happened to Clint in this room had indeed paid for it with their lives. Satisfied that none of them was going to shoot her in the back, Natasha finally headed to where Clint was tied to an examination table. He was lying flat on his back, every line of his body singing with tension.  
  
"Hey, Barton?" she called, approaching as slowly as she could afford. "You sleeping on the job?"  
  
Nothing.  
  
Natasha could tell he was breathing and seemingly conscious. Once she was close enough to properly see his face, the reason for his silence became painfully clear.  
  
Clint's eyes were open but they were also obviously unseeing, his pupils blown wide enough to look almost inhuman, the surrounding tissue red raw. A quick check confirmed that the Red Skull scientists had also found Clint's hearing aids, despite S.H.I.E.L.D. technology being practically invisible. Unless you knew to look for it.  
  
The implications of that, and the accompanying anger, were easier to deal with than the realisation that Clint was effectively both blind and deaf. Certainly, the latter only momentarily until they got back to the HQ but the former... Well, they'd know then as well, Natasha guessed.  
  
For now, she refused to entertain the idea of it as anything except a temporary injury. To do otherwise opened up the kind of darkness inside her that she hadn't dived into for years, not after Bulgaria, since Clint gave her a second chance she would never fully earn.  
  
Clint might have been missing two of his senses, but he was far from cut off. He'd turned his head toward Natasha, perhaps sensing movement, body heat, maybe... Natasha watched him take a deep breath, and for once she regretted not wearing any perfume on the job. Well, not this kind of job anyway. Normally, people being able to smell her coming was a disadvantage but now...  
  
Clint was tied down, thick leather straps over his wrists, arms, ankles, thighs and chest. They really hadn't fucked around, probably for a good reason. Natasha felt a flash of fierce satisfaction at the thought of Clint worming his way out of flimsier restraints, hoped he'd made his captors pay for their arrogance with some broken bones.  
  
Right now though, she couldn't risk untying him until he knew it was her, that there was no need to lash out. Slowly, she reached out and laid her hand over Clint's clenched fist.  
  
For a few seconds nothing happened. Then, millimetre by millimetre, Clint's hand loosened, until Natasha could slip her smaller one into his. She held her breath when Clint's fingers closed around her wrist, knowing he could snap it in a heartbeat. It was a price she was willing to pay though, and not even a full one either.  
  
However, it seemed that they would both survive this without any broken bones. Clint's fingers were now tracing the shape of her hand methodically, lingering on the callouses on her palm, the veins at the inside of her wrist. Natasha wondered if she could recognise his grip by feel alone and then, closing her eyes briefly, knew that she would, his body a familiar map she could travel blind, just like he was doing.  
  
Clint's face was also relaxing gradually, going from the bland mask to something like an actual human expression. It was good, but not enough. He couldn't see her, or hear her but there was a way. Natasha gripped Clint's hand in both of hers and slowly bent his fingers into letters, spelling N-A-T, grateful beyond measure that she'd insisted on learning ASL despite Clint's insistence that she didn't have to. Clint had a sign name for her, of course, but it needed both hands to make so fingerspelling was quicker and easier.  
  
"Tasha?" Clint's voice was hoarse, more of a whisper than anything else, and full of relief. "Shit. Sorry, I can't..."  
  
Natasha tapped him twice on the back of his hand, a quick 'hold on', before finally working off the numerous restraints. She helped him sit up, then to stand, Clint's muscles stiff and weak from the forced stillness. Once he was relatively stable on his feet, she brought his hands up until they were loosely cradling hers.  
  
Then, slowly, she started to sign.  
  
Clint caught on fast, fingers tracing the shape of her hands, following each arch, until they were almost moving in sync. She had to repeat some signs a couple of times but even so it didn't take long for her to get the message across: _Hostiles still in the building. Lift waiting outside. Follow my lead._  
  
The grin he flashed at her was strained but genuine, and gods, it was good to see.  
  
"Always," Clint said, repeating it in ASL for good measure, forefinger drawing a neat circle between them.  
  
  
***  
  
  
They made it out; Natasha at the front, Clint's hand resting against the middle of her back the whole way except when she needed the room to fight. Outside the facility, the rest of the extraction team were waiting, the medics swarming Clint as soon as they were clear.  
  
"One minute!" Natasha barked, keeping people at bay until she could sign to Clint what was happening. The last thing they needed was for some naive do-gooder putting a hand on Clint without warning and have it snapped in half. "Someone get him hearing aids."  
  
Luckily, S.H.I.E.L.D. med bays, even the mobile ones, came well stocked and spare aids were easily produced. Clint's relief as soon as the world around him sprung into focus was palpable, his muscles flowing loose under Natasha's hands, his head turning into the sound of her voice when she said "Hey," and "I'll ride in with you."  
  
  
***  
  
  
It took S.H.I.E.L.D. doctors three days to ascertain that Clint's blindness was only temporary, and three more until there was any actual proof of it. Clint kept up a constant front of bland joviality, providing a remarkably detailed report of his captors given how disadvantaged he'd been for most of his stay. It was only during the late nights, when it was just the two of them, that his mask cracked, and only enough for Natasha to see. For anyone else, Clint would have appeared to be resting peacefully, his back turned to the room, breathing steady.  
  
Natasha knew better than to acknowledge it. Instead, she rested her feet on the edge of Clint's bed, occasionally nudging him in the ribs and recounting a story after story, idle S.H.I.E.L.D. gossip and the never-ending saga of 'What Stark Did Next'. It wasn't solely for Clint's benefit either. After having her partner taken and missing for almost a week, Natasha needed the connection as much as Clint, whether either of them said it out loud or not.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Clint's vision was back to normal within a month, meaning Natasha didn't have to track down and terminate the people responsible after all. She didn't _have to_ , that is, but she did it anyway. S.H.I.E.L.D., at Coulson's behest, looked the other way which was practically as good as a blessing –not that she cared about having it. This was personal.  
  
She was gone for less than forty-eight hours, dropping off a box of memory sticks with the analysts on the way in. Personal or not, there sure was a professional gain to be had as well, so no point in wasting it.  
  
She found Clint at the range – the first place she looked, even before his quarters – shooting an arrow after arrow, each finding its targets from an impressive distance. He looked good, strong and relaxed, the quirk of lips telling her that he'd seen her approach, even his peripheral vision back to its usual sharpness.  
  
"Coulson's got a new assignment for us," he said in greeting, finally lowering his bow when she was standing close enough to smell the familiar combination of leather and sweat, the faint peppermint of his shampoo.  
  
"What are we waiting for?" Natasha asked.  
  
Clint rolled his eyes, packing up. "You."  
  
She huffed in silent laughter, the world settling back to what counted as normal for the two of them.  
  
"Hey, Tasha?" He touched her elbow briefly, nudging her to face him. "I..." He trailed off, and then brought Natasha's hands up in front of her, placing his inside them. She understood immediately, eyes never leaving his face as her hands followed along as he slowly signed _'thankful',_ three times in a row for the depth of feeling.  
  
When he was done, Natasha stopped his hands before he could pull them away, and reversed their position. Clint raised an eyebrow at her but didn't comment, although when she brought her crossed fists to her chest in the sign for ' _love_ ' his expression turned into one of wonder. It only deepened, when she followed it with the sign for ' _partner_ ', his hands effortlessly repeating the shape of it, making the word alongside her.  
  
She could have resisted the urge to press her palm against his cheek, to trace the still tender skin under his eyes, but there was no good reason to do so. Hadn't been for a long time now. Time was, she allowed them to have this.  
  
"Come on," she said, finally pulling away after a long, breathless moment, her hand still warm from his skin. "Let's go see what's next."  
  
The smile spreading over Clint's face was like the sun, warm enough to burn and infinitely more blinding.  
  
  



End file.
